An opportunity to ride the wind.
The greatest joy of death is the falling.

The sights of fall,
the sounds of them all,

hear their call,
the crinkle beneath your feet,

another broken leaf…

A capsized philosophy
off of the family tree.

Will you pardon me
for taking my leave?

Or are you so cruel to act
as if I never received...

Your expectations at last
have come to pass.

I don’t care.
I don’t care...

But look at me.

It’s hard to be
when you need it most.

I don’t think I deserve
to be left to coast,

on my way
as if I never existed…

But fair is fair
to those who decide.

And I don’t think it’s right
to be swept aside,

but what can you do
when you lived life?

You had to lose sooner or later...
Good night to you.

*I could never hate her.

The fiery depths in the ocean of the star above us
burns brightly against a full moon backdrop
looked at by those who were never there...

Aware to care.

A chemistry incomplete.

Eye’s that almost don’t meet,
but comfort in between sheets
burnt at the feet
and imperfect perpendicular
black lines in a photograph
that doesn't quite cross in view...

It’s not what I’m accustomed to…

We are all in pictures that will be forgotten…

At least I can say the same
for the table of the rotten.

Flipping pages…

Complete.

So many memories
left glossy envelopes alone,
forever unknown,
and old
grey scaled
sunny days
on the beach.

A life of smiling retreats
and no one knows a soul,
especially the one whose view
we knew.

And all those looking into the eye
have all died.

No more tears are cried
and I can smile as I flip on past,
knowing where I, one day to,
will be at last.

It’s funny how when nothing matters the focus can wonder…

I thought so long about the world within a word,
I didn’t realize it was within it the whole time…

And the hole can be such an uneven thing;
swallowing up all (everything) that dares to get near,
or peer within,
without a fear...

And to just jump in without a care…

to turn back time and relive again,
or a consciousness that settles upon a thin lit mind
that tries and tries,
but can never look in,
for if it did it would go blind
to a reality
that never even treated it kindly
to begin with anyway.

So death creeps in,
from within…

But the gathering,
who's so far down
in the blackest of black layers,
finds it can’t go down any further.

It’s fabric has gathered such a mass
that no more thoughts can get passed the openings grasp
and so the whole begins to pop,
like a bubble whose air has stopped,
and deflates back out and in
with all the flaws that turned out not to be flaws at all,
for all the folds get stretched flat
and rejoins everything...

‘Everything?!

Hey!

That’s actually me.’

And so it goes on until another hole is found
to go down,
but not to worry you see…

*You are actually
also me.

Let’s get old
and grow bored.

Waste our lives
on a story told.

Grinding days
don’t get greased.

Decaying thoughts
and watching screens...

Live vicariously
Through others dreams.

And watch the attention seekers
in corner store magazines.

Let’s go grey
then pass away…

Sitting in
our favorite stains.

Where we lived slow
and talked about the world...

And watched weather change
And thought,

‘This will be interesting.’

Or how that person once cut off your thought
and you went on about it until your final days.

Ruminating isn't so bad
as we laugh at the things that drive us mad.

Leave behind a legacy
and allow our descendants
the pleasure of doing the same
mundane things.

Work a life
unexplored.

The repetition
of “day and nights” chores...

I forgot to mention
the feelings of love in our lives…

But that’s just fleeting
when everyone dies.